


A Gamble

by itcanmakeyoucrazy



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: F/M, hopefully i finish this, its gonna be fluff probably
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-22 00:58:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6064882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itcanmakeyoucrazy/pseuds/itcanmakeyoucrazy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Begin again, but not alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Gamble

I opened my eyes. I slowly sat up on my creaky, dusty mattress. Clouds of dust slowly rose from it as I moved. It was a dusty, reddish color. Almost like blood.

"Fuck, I'm still here..." I sighed and put my head in my hands.

Every morning, in a different abandoned building, I would hope it had all been a dream. That I had fallen asleep in that abandoned Brotherhood shelter somehow, and that this was all a long, nightmarish illusion. That the sleep I had barely felt upon seeing that first radio still was going on, somewhere in the overarching arch of reality.

But it wasn't.

I didn't long for the Mojave. No one ever does, except maybe someone who has been stuck in a vault so long they crave any light and air at all, no matter how desolate and radscorpion-infested it may be.  
But damn, I wanted to go back. I missed ED-E, too. Hell, I still missed Dr. Dala, months after I last saw her.  
Yet here I was, stranded to do some old, bearded white asshole's bidding with the threat of violent explosion.

I stood up and stretched. I still needed to explore much of the Villa. Everything I'd seen so far was like a maze, but unlike a maze I felt my life shortening every time a ghost person popped up. And the beeping, oh my god. I hadn't really gotten much farther than the areas near the Vera hologram, to be honest.

I tried to remember the mission the old guy had given me. I shook my Pip-Boy free of Cloud dust, and it lazily blinked on. I had to find someone...right. Hopefully this person was stocked on stims, or food, or _something_.

I descended the creaky stairs carefully, and made my way toward the Residential Area. It was the closest from where I was, and I wasn't risking an adventure into a potentially large area with visibility so low.

After hours of creeping around, Ghost People-killing, Cloud-avoiding looting and healing, I realized there were an awful lot of traps scattered throughout the area. For a Ghost-People trick, it was oddly unconcentrated. Soon, I found a path leading to an apartment's upper floor.

As I set a foot on the stairs, I was hit by the distinct sensation of nostalgia. As if it were the sun rising from a horizon, a couch and sitting figure began to be visible from the floor. Slowly, more was revealed as I reached the top of the flight of stairs.  
A scarred, skinless head peeked from above the once-lavish armchair.

"Well," he said. "Is it you making my necktie beep?"  
The words clung to the smoke from his cigarette, the end stretching out like chewed gum.

"Guess so," I shrugged. "And you must be one of the people I'm supposed to find. Nice to meet you, I'm Mikoto." I walked towards his chair, my hand outstretched at that all-too-rare angle, when suddenly he raised his hand towards me.

"Do sit down, but don't get comfortable," he leaned over to his left and tapped his cigarette on the ashtray. The ashes cascaded almost daintily.

 _Shit. What kind of asshole have I found myself this time?_ I swung around into the torn, once-plush sooty red chair, not wanting to spend more stimpaks than necessary.

"I'm sure you've heard of me. I'm the great Dean _Domino_."

His lips curled upwards, small tufts of smoke climbing up from his teeth.

"Pleased to meet you, Courier."

He was, in a strange way, magnetic. Not his charisma, no, that was obvious. I already sensed some warning sirens in my head, but I couldn't help tracing every scar, every delicate wound with my eyes.

"So, who _are_ you?"  
He had an accent. From where, it no longer mattered. I didn't know anyway. Hadn't mattered for years. But somehow, his clothes, his manner -- he seemed to be very refined, or at least he was trying to seem so.  
"I'm Courier Six."  
"Ahh, a mailman, then?" he pinched the cigarette between his fingers and slowly exhaled curls of smoke. "Care to deliver my fanmail? Joking, joking!" I let out a dry "ha".

He sat back in his chair for a moment and switched on a radio on a small coffee table before him. It flicked on with a static, quietly playing instrumental jazz. I cocked an eyebrow.

"You like stuff without lyrics?"  
"Weeeell, it doesn't need a voice to have _soul_ ," he snarled, seeming mildly insulted.  
"What, you an instrument player or somethin'?" His insult went off the chart as his long-gone eyebrows raised and his eyes widened.  
"I'm -- well -- the great Dean Domino! Haven't you heard of me?"  
"Well, the Pip-Boy doesn't exactly have much in the way of variety with regards to stations," I shrugged. He sighed and sat back again, as if in resignation. The chair creaked under his weight.

We traded each other's origin stories, searching, grasping in the dark for something. Something neither of us knew we were looking for.


End file.
